


properly

by Aimerz



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Dorks in Love, Feelings, Fluff, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post Ep 12, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, i just, needed this, victuri proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:12:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9453740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aimerz/pseuds/Aimerz
Summary: “Well,” Yuuri chides, pouting, one eye closed. “That stunt in Barcelona wasn’t a proper proposal, was it?"[or; in which Victor is shit at proposing, and Yuuri wants to do it all over again.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> i might be the only one??? but i was not a big fan of the 'gold medal ultimatum' so 
> 
> i gave birth to this
> 
> enjoy!

Moving in with Victor isn’t exactly a part of the original plan.

 

Given—the idea has always been on the back of Yuuri’s mind, tickling his neck, urging him to propose it, to make the first move. Those few months back in Japan are spent mulling that same thought over and over until he almost gets a headache. It’s like ripping petals off a flower chanting _loves me, loves me not_ ; only, love isn’t the issue at hand. Instead, Yuuri spends countless nights plucking petals from a nonexistent flower because he doesn’t know what to _do_.

 

He slips, once; words tumbling out of his mouth without his consent.

 

“I thought that was precisely what you guys were going to do? Live together? Run off into the sunset?” Yuuko asks, confusion snaking its way into her features. She raises an eyebrow.

 

“What? No—ah, I mean,” Yuuri clears his throat and hopes his childhood friend won’t comment on the pink dusting his ears. “We haven’t really, uh, talked about it?”

 

“Yuuri,” She sighs, sympathetic, and throws an arm around his shoulders. “You’re engaged,”

 

His breath hitches. It’s easy; getting used to calling the beautiful, golden band around his finger an engagement ring and not a lucky charm (Victor had laughed about it after the end of the Grand Prix, kissing away any remaining doubts about their engagement). The concept, however; what it actually represents to be Victor’s fiancé… Yuuri thinks about the golden medal he’s yet to win in order for any plans on a future marriage to be set on stone. His stomach performs a rather painful twist.

 

“I know,” He chokes out, twirling the ring around his finger. “But what if I end up being a bother? You know—maybe his place isn’t big enough for two people? He might not even want to for all I care and—”

 

“You pushed your beds together at the hotels during the Grand Prix, because God forbid _anything_ trying to keep you dorks apart, and you’re trying to tell me Victor wouldn’t want to live with you?”

 

Carmine spreads down Yuuri’s neck, leaving a tingling sensation on its wake. He ducks his head, almost regretting telling Yuuko of all those times they almost, _almost_ asked for a single bed room at the reception. Holding Victor’s hand at night, trailing his thumb down his knuckles—that had been an adventure that left him giddy and slightly dumbstruck.

 

He realizes he wouldn’t mind getting to do that every single night.

 

“I’ll talk to him when I go back to Russia,” He says, gripping the fabric of his sweatpants a little too tightly. “It’s okay if in the end it’s better for us to live in separate places, yes? We will see each other every day and it’s not like _moving in with him is_ …”

 

Yuuko smiles that ever-knowing smile of hers; a tilt to her lips Yuuri’s never been able to decipher, and walks away.

 

“Yuuri?” She calls. “We’re going to miss you,”

 

His heart clenches inside his ribcage.

 

“I’m going to miss you guys, too,”

 

* * *

 

 

As it turns out, there is no actual need for a discussion.

 

When he arrives at Russia, long-haired and excited, a happy Makkachin trailing behind him, Victor has already made all of the arrangements for them to move in together.

 

“You don’t mind, right?” Victor asks once they’ve walked Yuri to Lilia’s apartment. He holds Makkachin’s leash between his hands.

 

“Ah—no! No, I don’t,” There is a sheepish smile sitting on Yuuri’s face as he scratches the back of his neck. “I, uh, thought you might not—you know. Want me there? I mean, it’s your personal space and…”

 

He sounds stupid. A little heartbroken, too; voice low and hushed, eyes crinkling up with halfhearted, deflated light. Victor turns around, face serious, and places his hands around Yuuri’s waist.

 

“Oh, Yuuri,” He breathes, burying his face in the crook of his fiancé’s neck. “Yuuri, my precious _Yuuri_. What am I going to do with you? Of _course_ I want you there with me, every day, _solnyshko_.”

 

“I also want to,” Yuuri wraps his hands around a handful of Victor’s jacket, tugging him closer. His face lights up immediately and the Sun pales in comparison to Victor’s smile; so honest and warm and full of _love_ that Yuuri melts a little bit more. Victor ducks in to place a quick kiss in the corner of Yuuri’s mouth. “live with you,”

 

“Let’s go, then,”

 

Victor takes his hand and slots his fingers between Yuuri’s, yelping when an impatient Makkachin drags him forward with his leash. They both laugh, bubbly and high-pitched as they take their first steps into their new life.

 

* * *

 

 

It is very easy—falling into routine; learning where the bigger mugs are, where the fluffiest blankets are kept and that Makkachin serves a second purpose as Victor’s morning alarm. It is only because he just _can’t_ say no to Yuuri that Victor allows him another hour of sleep, waking him up with the alluring smell recently brewed coffee and whatever kind of fancy breakfast he’s decided to prepare.

 

(Breakfast is the _only_ type of food Victor knows how to cook. To make matters worse, he just likes preparing gourmet-ish, very high-end food that is _so damn delicious_.)

 

They pick a restaurant when Yuuri is feeling a tad too lazy to prepare dinner. They eat a disturbing amount of take-out when they’re too tired and, as a consequence, Yuuri spends far too many Saturdays in the gym, vowing to never, _ever_ lay his eyes upon Thai food for the rest of his life. He fails miserably, but Victor is always there to peck his lips adoringly, to tease the worries out of him and create even more rigid workout plans for the next day.

 

The absolute best part is getting to sleep snug between Victor’s arms, breath tickling the back of his neck and sleepy, midnight whispers shared in drunken voices.

 

Yuuri can’t believe he’d been unsure about moving in with Victor. Hand outstretched in front of him, he gazes upon the beautiful band in his right hand and bites his lips. Worlds is but mere weeks away and he’s not, well—feeling particularly confident about his routines, despite Victor’s reassurances as both a coach and a lover.

 

(There are days in which he places some more faith in himself and _soars_ , smiling like a goof and launching himself towards Victor’s waiting arms.)

 

* * *

 

 

A particular Sunday evening arrives when none of them feel like doing anything. Usually, Victor takes him sightseeing because there is _so_ much to see; from bridges to tiny shops in the downtown to an outdoor rink in the outskirts of St. Petersburg. With the Worlds Championship right at the corner, it’s not a surprise that they’ve both been spending more time at the rink.

 

Makkachin is fast asleep on a little pillow of a faded green, with the corners chewed out and spots of drool all over the place.

 

Yuuri’s body is only sore from—no, not _that_ , Jesus Christ. Training has been very taxing lately; sleepless nights spent at the rink until his feet are bruised and calloused and tears threaten to spill down his cheeks. He looks up from where he’s lying between Victor’s legs on the couch; a tangle of limbs and blankets that is, despite the lack of space, very comfortable. Yuuri finds Victor’s warmth to be better than the heating that is _always_ breaking on the coldest nights.

 

His fiancé’s eyes are closed; a peaceful sort of calm to the tilt of his lips, breathing even and uninterrupted. He begins to card his fingers through the silver locks, humming an old Japanese lullaby from when he was a little, chubby kid and Mari would stay in his room singing the nightmares away. The body beneath him stirs and a playful smile breaches the soft lines of Victor’s face.

 

The fingers stop massaging until Victor starts whining, leaning into Yuuri’s touch.

 

God, Yuuri loves this man so, _so_ much—

 

“Victor?”

 

“Hm?”

 

It’s not quite the moment Yuuri had envisioned in his mind. They’re not in a beach sitting close to the shore, feet just barely dipping into the water. They’re not watching the sunset, fingers locked together, hearing the cries of the seagulls above them. In conclusion, it’s not the movie like scene Yuuri wanted for _this_ —for the words that are about to leave his mouth in a rush of pure, unguarded feelings; in a sudden wakeup call that has a knot inside him breaking loose.

 

He stands straighter, kneeling between Victor’s legs to get a better look of his face.

 

“I love you,” Yuuri murmurs, hands on top of Victor’s chest, cheeks a flaming red that spreads down his neck and ears and he’s just _too cute_ for him to handle. It’s not quite nervousness nipping his insides and making his heart beat dangerously faster.

 

Suddenly, his sappy, disgustingly romantic idea of a beach declaration of love doesn’t matter. _This_ —the domesticity of falling asleep with his head atop Victor’s steady breathing, of shared meals and tickle wars, of sitting in the balcony with a cup of tea watching the stars, mountains of blankets wrapped around the both of them—is far more beautiful than any kind of  movie-like scenario. This one moment between them is simply better than a sunset; than a meteor shower or a date at the outdoor ice rink.

 

Getting to witness the shift of emotions that come and go, twist and dance like wildfire in Victor’s face is probably Yuuri’s new second favorite sport.

 

Because Victor is completely taken aback, eyes glistening with tears that don’t take long to drip, drip, drip down the curves of his cheeks and _oh God_ _he’s sobbing_ , rising to wrap his arms around Yuuri and tackling him into the tightest bear hug ever. He’s garbling nonsense, hiccupping words between sobs and failed attempts at taking deep breaths.

 

“I,” Victor hiccups, wiping the tears that continue to fall with the back of his hand. Yuuri aids him in the process, caressing his cheeks with his thumbs until the tears are but a faint trace in his face. “Love you too. I love you so, _so_ much; my solnyshko, my _life,_ Yuuri. _Yuuri_. I love you too. Of course I love you too,”

 

Yuuri is the one to lean forward until their lips touch. The kiss is slow and languid, murmured confessions in between gasps for breath. Victor digs his nails around Yuuri’s waist and the latter, in a burst of confidence, lifts his legs and places them next to Victor’s hips until he’s properly straddling him, never breaking the kiss that has him dizzy, smiling like an idiot and falling even deeper in love with him.

 

(Unbeknownst to Yuuri, that was not the first time he’d professed his love to Victor. He’d been sleeping, curled around the blankets in the space Victor had just emptied when the words tumbled out of his mouth. Victor had been so shocked he’d accidentally woken Yuuri up with his yelp.)

 

“I’m sorry I took so long.”

 

“Don’t apologize, Yuuri,” Victor starts peppering his fiancé’s face with butterfly kisses. “I’ve been crazy about you since Sochi—thought you just _had_ to know how much I loved you I didn’t realize how important it was to say it out loud. _I love you_ ,”

 

Yuuri smiles, joy cursing through his veins and he’s happy; so happy the pain from yesterday’s practice seems to fade into nothingness, buried underneath piles and piles of this new feelings that decide to bring tears to Yuuri’s face, too, and—ah. There is also this other issue—

 

Should he address it? To tell the truth it’s been—bothering him, to say the least. Nagging at the back of his mind at the most unpleasant of times. It’s the one thing that has him biting his lips raw and waking up in the middle of the night, sweating, trying to muffle his voice in favor of Victor not waking up.

 

(Victor’s a particularly perceptive man. And after their little fight before the free skate at the Grand Prix finals, he’s made a mental note to _never_ avoid any sort of deep conversation about their emotions. At least that’s what he’s trying to accomplish.)

 

“Yuuri? What’s wrong?”

 

Talking about perceptiveness…

 

“Were you…” Yuuri begins, lower lip worried between his teeth. He fiddles his fingers with the hem of Victor’s sweatshirt. “Were you being serious when you said we’d only get married once I win gold? What does that even mean? Gold—gold when? At Worlds? The Four Continents? The Grand Prix?”

 

There’s bitterness etched in the voice that dips low; Yuuri clenches his fists around the fabric of Victor’s shirt and prevents himself from saying anything else. Yuuko had reminded him about it; about the ‘conditions’ set by Victor that night in front of everybody. A gold medal in exchange for a wedding.

 

Something so ridiculously _Victor_ it hadn’t occurred to Yuuri to defy him at the time, too busy organizing his thoughts after he’d proclaimed the rings engagement bands.

 

Victor’s eyes are shocked and wide; the blue Yuuri had filled with tears of mirth now stares at him in sudden dawning, mouth gaping, as Victor comes to realize what he’d done. He averts his eyes (much to Yuuri’s discontent) and lets his head fall with a thud against Yuuri’s chest.

 

“That _was_ pretty unfair of me, huh?” Victor admits with a half-assed attempt at laughing the memory off. Yuuri huffs in response. “I was trying to motivate you, _solnyshko_. I wanted you to know how confident I was in you and your skating—that gold was not a farfetched idea, or a delusional dream. I wanted everyone to know that not only we’re getting married, but that you were also going to become the top skater in the world.”

 

Yuuri remains silent, grasp on Victor’s clothing twitchy and unsteady. He wants to force Victor to look at him, to raise his head and meet his gaze with the same fire—the same soul crushing intensity he’d summoned after the Grand Prix to make sure Yuuri would never forget their engagement was real.

 

Real—sure it is. However, what _was_ the point of that stupid ultimatum?

 

“I’m sorry, _kotyenok_.” He sighs, venturing a feather-light kiss to Yuuri’s pulse point. “That’s not—I never meant it _that_ way, Yuuri. _Never_. Placing our marriage in the hands of an inanimate object, a gold medal—Oh, Yuuri, my beloved. I’m truly sorry,”

 

“But you’re not—” Yuuri prods at Victor’s face until they’re facing each other again, anxious blue eyes against a set of unsure, wavering brown eyes. Victor’s breathing falters, drawing him closer to his fiancé. “disappointed? That we didn’t get married straight away because I didn’t win gold?”

 

The sight of a Yuuri willing himself into something smaller has always bothered Victor. To see him turn his gaze away _just so_ , lips trembling and fumbling around words that never leave his mouth—Victor hates it. Hates himself for letting this beautiful boy believe the rest of their lives fell upon the results of his next competition. He wraps his arms around Yuuri, drawing slow circles with his thumb on his lower back.

 

“Gold medal or not,” Victor kisses his left cheek, then his right, then his nose, always missing Yuuri’s  mouth on purpose. “World record or not, Yuuri, I could never be disappointed in you,”

 

And then Yuuri is smiling, thrilled and jubilant and he isn’t wavering anymore, arms locked tight behind Victor’s neck. When he tries to come forward to kiss him, however, Yuuri stops him with a gentle hand placed where his lips should have been. Victor whines underneath him, squirming to try to catch Yuuri at a different angle.

 

“What are you waiting for, Victor?” Yuuri questions, mock anger that’s not quite fake his method of letting him know he’s getting _impatient_.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well,” Yuuri chides, pouting, one eye closed. “That stunt in Barcelona wasn’t a proper proposal, was it? I was so embarrassed, when Phichit announced to _everyone_ that we’d gotten married, but you didn’t take your chance! Decided to stick to being your coach persona,” Victor tries to say something back, but Yuuri interrupts him; grin spreading wide across his features. “I even missed my ‘got-down-on-one-knee’ kind of proposal,”

 

“I thought that wasn’t something the Japanese did?” Victor muses, index finger trailing down his lower lip. Yuuri wants to protest, but— “You didn’t deny it, at the airport. When I said your words were just like a marriage proposal,”

 

“Even still,” Yuuri mumbles. “I didn’t get an answer at the time,”

 

(Cause of death: Katsuki Yuuri and his unearthly knack for making Victor’s heart _stop_ —)

 

Yuuri takes a deep breath and scuttles away, face colored a light pink that goes from his ears to the base of his neck. He can only hope those _things_ writhing in his stomach are butterflies and not a swarm of bees. His right hand reaches for Victor’s while his left hand cups his fiancé’s cheek; gaze steady and solid. This is not the moment to have doubts, or for bees to violently attack his guts.

 

“Ok,” Yuuri declares, clearing his throat. Back at the airport it had been _so_ much easier; a speech that left his mouth in a whirlwind of words and love and gratitude. Victor cocks his head slightly to the side, and it is only when Yuuri is about to speak again that he _realizes_ and his heart has definitely stopped _beating_ — “Will you, Victor Nikiforov, spend the rest of your life with this chubby, dime-a-dozen Japanese skater—”

 

“ _Wonderful, record-breaking, love of my life_ —”

 

“Okay, okay! Jeez. Well, uh, um,” Great. Victor will have achieved something else this evening; turning him into a complete, stuttering mess. “Will you spend the rest of your life with me? For real this time?”

 

They are both crying, now; backs wrecked with sobs as tears spill down their cheeks and leave wet splotches on their clothes, eyes red and nose running. Whatever part of the brain is in charge of forming coherent thoughts has short-circuited. Victor raises the hand Yuuri’d been holding to his lips, placing a loving kiss to the gold band in his ring finger.

 

“ _Yes,_ Yuuri,” He sobs, sprinkling wet kisses all over Yuuri’s cheeks, nose, jaw. “A thousand times _yes_ ,”

 

Yuuri’s face is set; tears continue to drip and he looks like a _mess_ , but uneasiness does not longer crawl inside the pools of his eyes. There is no need to fear—no need to doubt that this moment between them is _real_ ; not a rushed proposal of sorts in an airport. Not one next to an ultimatum. _I get to wake up next to you, every day_.

 

“Victor,” He laughs, touching his forehead to Victor’s. “That was _so_ chick-flick of you,”

 

“Oh? Didn’t Phichit call me a _living chick-flick_?”

 

“Guess he was right,”

 

“But I am _your_ living chick flick,”

 

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, pecking Victor’s lips. “You are,”

 

**Author's Note:**

> bonus: yuuri can barely move the next day *wink* *wink* and yuri is so done with them he steals makkachin for an entire evening bc 'reasons'
> 
> i wrote this very late at night so
> 
> kudos and comments are appreciated<3
> 
> oops i forgot this  
> come talk to me on [tumblr](//www.theaimerzz.tumblr.com)


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